Virginia Vitzthum collects war stories in her forthcoming book

When dates are good, they're very good, but when they're bad, they're truly horrid. And boy, did Virginia Vitzthum hear some doozies while collecting the 53 stories in her new anthology—which riotously upholds the age-old equation: The worse the date, the better the story to share at brunch. But the volume also includes some happy exceptions that prove the rule. ELLE chatted with Vitzthum about the ups and downs of dating today.

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ELLE: You've been writing about sex since 1998. What are the biggest misconceptions about dating today?Virginia Vitzthum: There's an advice industry that sets up dating as a battle: Men are like this, so you'd better do this. Women want you to give them your best game. It's so antagonistic. If you want to get intimate with someone, you want to be friends. It's not helpful to be in this very judgmental place that involves jumping through all these hoops that you've set up. Then again, I'm 48 and single, so maybe I should be reading those books more!

ELLE: Have you come up with any universal truths from collecting these stories?VV: People never expect their dates to look exactly like their online photos. Also, everyone lies about their age—"If I say I'm 39, they'll assume I'm 45, so I'd better say I'm 32."

ELLE: What was the most surprising thing you learned?VV: That the happy stories started out the same as the disastrous ones. A great blind-date story involves bizarre behavior that continues over a period of time, but some people had a funny series of mishaps that didn't end with "Of course, I never saw him again." It sounds corny and obvious, but—give people a chance. Don't retreat into indignation when something inappropriate happens. It's often worth hanging in there. A long-term relationship is hard and usually requires tolerating some crazy behavior.

ELLE: Given all the technology involved today, did you hear a lot of stories about people having trouble getting rid of a bad date?VV: I didn't hear a lot of creepy stories, and there's only one stalker story in the book. I don't think it's any scarier to date now than it ever was. Well, maybe it's scarier emotionally, but not in terms of getting followed and chopped up by an ax murderer. My rant about technology has less to do with stalking and safety than with how Internet dating and cell phones have made people less committed to anything. Everything is very provisional.

ELLE: Your last book, I Love You, Let's Meet, was a meditation on online dating. How has the Internet affected how we look for mates?VV: The Internet has profoundly changed dating. You don't have to rely on serendipity to throw someone in your path. We have more options: You can punch in what you want, and all these profiles pop up. That engenders more of a shopping mentality.

ELLE: Does having more options make it harder to know when you've found a good one?VV: Yes and no. Sometimes I think the idea of romantic victory has become confused—that to be out meeting some new hot person is the prize, as opposed to finding the person you want to spend the rest of your life with. Other people approach their dates with restlessness and pickiness. If your date with Mr. Wednesday Night isn't going so great, you're not going to hang in there if you know Mr. Thursday and Mr. Friday await you. You're gone.

ELLE: Are there fewer rules for dating than there used to be?VV: Online dating is very equalizing—checking out each other's pictures, reading each other's written representations. Either person can escalate the relationship from talking to meeting in person. But I find it surprising that, in my experience, at least, the guy is still expected to pay. The idea of true gender equality in dating still seems to freak people out.

ELLE: What happened to the traditional blind date in which someone we know selects a date for us?

Yes, his online profile said "a lawyer resembling Eminem," but I hadn't had a date in a while. I accepted his invitation to meet at a vodka bar in downtown Manhattan. He was on the corner stool in conversation with the bartender. And he did look like Eminem—pale, scrawny, pouting—but one who gelled his hair too much and wore tortoiseshell glasses that made him look even younger. He greeted me with a nervous backslap and insisted that I order a martini with ginger-infused vodka. "Trust me, I drink here every night. I know what's good." He was like a child who'd learned to play a man by watching '50s movies.

The drink was good. Em poured his own drink down the hatch and proceeded to talk nonstop about himself. He knew my first name and found out nothing else over an hour and a half. He was a personal-injury attorney—and boy, was he proud to work at Johnnie Cochran's law firm. After maybe an hour of monologue, I went to the bathroom and plotted my escape. I would ask for the check—that usually can deflate a puffed-up man.

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As I walked back, Eminem looked me up and down with an unfriendly smile. I gestured to the bartender. Eminem smirked. "A modern woman, eh? You can take care of yourself, is that it?"

Was he Eminem or Spencer Tracy? What a strange, oily young curmudgeon. I reached into my purse and couldn't find my wallet.

"You left your purse here when you went to the bathroom?"

"Yes, why? Did you see something?" I hated him so much that I couldn't bear to look at him.

"No, but that wasn't very smart, was it?" Now I did look, and I raised my voice. "What is your problem? Why don't you help me look?!" The bartender and a few people at the bar glanced over. I was close to yelling. He continued to smirk. I patted my coat pockets and dug frantically through my purse a fifth time. I ran back into the bathroom and scanned the stalls and sinks. Fuck. Credit cards, license, expense-report receipts, $73 in cash.

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I headed back to the table, where ambulance-chasin' Slim Shady was still grinning evilly at me. My teeth gritted. "Hey, calm down," he commanded, the smile still in his voice.

I breathed in and out. "Look, it's probably better if you either help look or don't talk to me."

"Listen, Joyce. Look at me."

"What?!" I growled, spinning around. "What do you—" I stopped. He held my wallet out, long-suffering patience in his eyes.

"I took it to teach you a lesson. You shouldn't trust people so much."

I used the wallet to knock his ginger martini into his lap. The two women sitting next to me applauded as I strode outside, where I counted my money.

I was living and working on Long Island, not meeting men, so I went to a Jewish singles function at a community center. A nice-looking man with sad eyes walked up and introduced himself.

He asked about my accent, and I told him I grew up in Israel. David asked what it was like to be an immigrant and did I like Long Island. Soon we moved past interviewing and into real, unself-conscious conversation. He seemed a little distracted, but nice, and interested in me.

A woman approached us as we talked, then stopped about 10 feet behind him and glared at us. David saw me glancing over his shoulder and turned to look at her. He turned back and excused himself. They spoke in low, angry tones. She strode back into the hall and he walked to me, already shrugging defensively.

"Well, Navah, I guess this is the time to tell you my situation. I'm almost divorced, just a few i's left to dot. And I haven't quite closed on my house yet, either. That woman is my ex-wife, almost, and right now I live in our basement. Her basement. What can I say? I'm here because the marriage has been over for a long time, and I hope you'll still see me again."

"You're both looking for people at the same mixer? Isn't that awkward?" He laughed. "Of course it's awkward! And her car is in the shop, so now she's dependent on me for rides everywhere. When I told her I was coming here, she said, `Well, if you can go look for someone new, I am too.' I've found it works better if I try to humor her."

"Who ended the marriage?" I thought her gaze at me was angry and wondered if she still loved David.

"She asked for the divorce, but it was mutual."

"Yes, I would like to see you again."

He called me at 9:10 the next morning at my job. "There's an Israeli-American night at a park tonight. Will you go with me?" I sped home from work and dressed up. A blue two-door Toyota pulled up, and David's ex-wife stepped out of the passenger seat and climbed into the backseat, leaving the door open.

David hurried over. "I'm so sorry. We'd talked about going to this before I met you, and I begged her not to come, but she insisted. She is the one who told me about this event, so I couldn't very well tell her no. Do you mind?"

Of course I minded. "Hello, I'm Navah," I said, leaning into the car. "Are you sure you won't sit up front? I don't mind the back."

"No," the wife, Barbara, said. "I'm fine back here. Just get in."

David pulled onto the highway and praised the nice weather. It felt too strange to ignore her, so I turned in my seat and asked her questions about her job, which she answered curtly. Then she said, "Israel, huh? I spent a summer on a kibbutz when I was 17. I couldn't wait to get home."

The ride felt like hours, but it was actually 25 minutes. We parked, and the two of them dipped their heads together into the trunk to get a blanket. They kept physical space between them, but familiarity was there in all their movements.

We spread the blanket in the grass in front of a stage. David sat in the middle. Two songs in, Barbara said loudly, "This isn't what I expected at all. Take me to Judy's house, David." He turned to me.

"Her friend Judy lives close by. I'll be right back." And he left! I had no idea where I was and wondered how he would find me in the dark. Or if he was even coming back. But he eventually returned with a lovely dinner and a bottle of wine. We lay down and looked at the stars after we ate. The music was lovely. After the concert, we talked longer. He didn't trash Barbara, so I didn't, either; we just flowed around that elephant in the room.

We did, however, have to pick up the cranky elephant from Judy's. We rode in silence—mine and David's contented, Barbara's unfathomable. We couldn't kiss good night, obviously, but he gave my hand a little squeeze before I got out of the car and held the seat for Barbara to jump up front. I felt his touch until I went to sleep.

Our kids love that story. At the end, they always ask, "And after that, you married him?!" Even Barbara laughs about it now.